Coming Of An Equal
by PinkGlowStick
Summary: A FATF and Midnight Club II crossover, sorta. Will Dom remain the top-dog of the LA street-racing scene? Or will the team gain a valuable member and friend? Or both? Read and Review, please!


Author's Note: This is sort of a Fast And The Furious/Midnight Club II crossover, using Maria from Midnight Club II. You already know I don't own anybody from the movies The Fast And The Furious, 2Fast 2Furious, or the PS2 game Midnight Club II. So I don't really need to tell you that. Hehe. However, if any unfamiliar names appear that don't seem to apply to either the game or the movie, I probably own them. This story MAY be told from several different points of view because I kinda try to get everyone's personal feelings down where you can see them, but I may stick to only Maria's POV. Plus, I'll go ahead and say that I don't know THAT much about cars, so the car things won't be THAT elaborate, even though I really wish they could be. It's through no fault of mine, I'm just a girl that loves cars and hasn't been around them that much, except dirt stock cars. Also, I'm not from Houston, so I don't know what the street-racing scene is like there, or if they even have one. I just picked a close-to-Mexico place that Maria could be from, since she's Hispanic, and I just chose to make her Mexican. This is my first FATF fanfic, and my first Midnight Club II fanfic for that matter, and I hope you enjoy it. Please review. I won't say "no flames" because even if I say it, people who don't like my story or just want to be mean will flame it anyway. But if you do give flames, have the decency to be logged in, because if you have a story out there, I will cut you down unless it's exceptionally excellent work. So beware. Hehe. J/K. Oh, but if you DON'T have a story out there, you might as well not flame, because you just make yourself look stupid. Why flame someone else's work if you don't have any of your own? Think about it. Anyways, enjoy!  
  
Coming Of An Equal  
  
Chapter One  
  
*Maria's POV*  
  
I knew making the move from Texas would be a blessing for me. The street  
racing scene was dying there, and that was what I lived and breathed  
since I used to skip school and hot-wire peoples' ride back in my junior  
high school days. I was a terrible truant. But street racing, that IS  
what I live and breathe, still to this day. And I probably always will,  
until I get too old and arthritic to press my NOS buttons. At least, I  
can't see anything capturing my interests more for a very long time.  
  
So, I packed up all my shit, which wasn't much, into the backseat and  
trunk of my sky-blue Supra and headed out of town toward the Pacific  
coast. At that time, I wasn't quite sure where I was going, but I knew I  
had to head somewhere where there was a street racing scene, and one that  
was decent, active, and exciting.  
  
I won't lie to you. My car was my heart and soul. Still is. I'll never  
get another one and race it too until mine gets so worn out that it won't  
keep up anymore. Which doesn't look like anytime soon. It's a Toyota  
Supra, sky-blue in color, with these graphics going down both sides that  
kinda look like huge cat scratches. It's tight, believe me. Plus, I got  
all the NOS graphics and all that good stuff on the windshield and the  
back windows and on my fenders, etc. And it's got a killer NOS system in  
it. And a lot more than that, but those are my secrets. You won't find  
a much better car anywhere. At least, that's what I thought when I left  
Houston.  
  
When I reached California, I saw one of those big green highway signs  
that said Los Angeles. And it hit me that that's where I needed to be.  
An interesting new life, beautiful beaches, plenty of clubs, plenty of  
stuff to do. But most of all Los Angeles just seemed to spell out  
serious street racing. I pointed my car in the direction that that big  
green sign posted on the bridge said to go and hoped for the best.  
  
I suppose you're wondering what I left behind in Houston. Well, the  
answer is absolutely nothing. There was nothing there for me anymore.  
My mama and papa were total assholes and as far as I could tell, I was a  
burden to them. And they didn't give a shit about showing it. Ever  
since I was three years old, I knew how to put my own clothes on, even  
though they didn't always match, but nobody in my household cared. And I  
could tie my own shoes. Sloppily, but I could tie them. I taught myself  
that. Plus, after so many years of trying to gain my parents' love in  
every way possible, I gave up around the sixth grade and began to take up  
with friends. I don't guess they were the best friends to have, but to  
me, they were the family I lacked.  
  
When I entered the seventh grade, I began to not give a shit about school  
anymore. Why should I? Nobody cared if I went or not. Nobody cared if  
I made good grades, or even decent grades, for that matter. So fuck it.  
It wasn't that big of a deal anymore. I began to skip school, sometimes  
for days at a time. The school would contact my parents, they'd beat the  
shit out of me and act like they cared that I wasn't going to school, and  
then I'd return to class for a few days before striking out again the  
next week and not going. I figured if my parents didn't kill me, all  
they could do was make me stronger. And that's the only thing I thank  
them for now. Anyway, while we were skipping school, my friends and I  
would hot-wire the local rich folks' cars and race them on the  
interstate. We always returned them before we got caught, but it was the  
most exciting thing I'd ever experienced. And that's how I became a good  
driver. Most people get their permit during their sophomore year of high  
school and begin driving full-time by their junior year. But I was  
driving almost everyday at thirteen years old.  
  
Because the school I attended had decent guidance counselors that  
actually gave a shit and worked with me on things because they saw my  
bruises and knew where they came from, and that my parents really weren't  
all that great, I was able to pass junior high school and make it out of  
the eighth grade. I even made it through my sophomore year in high  
school. But I quit in the middle of my junior year. I'm no math whiz,  
or English whiz for that matter (as Spanish is my first language and  
English my second. I learned English when I first came to the states  
from Mexico, but I was eight years old. My accent shows.), so I figured  
I wouldn't make it past that point anyway. My counselors and even the  
principal tried to work with me, but things just didn't work out. I  
kinda wish they had now.  
  
I was able to manage to get a job at a local Hardee's. But you know how  
Hardee's never gets any business, even with these new Thickburgers they  
have out now. So I was actually laid off from a fast food restaurant  
because they didn't need that much help. Sucks, huh? Well, it was  
actually a blessing in disguise.  
  
Because I applied to a local high performance auto parts store and garage  
and received the job. I worked there for about three years before the  
owner, Jack Redford, an older white guy who is probably the nicest man  
you could ever meet, presented me with this run-down, ragged piece of  
shit car for Christmas that looked like it could never be used again, and  
told me that if I could fix it up, I could have it. And then he told me  
the sweetest thing I'd ever heard: that I could use any tool in the  
garage and any performance parts I wanted, free of charge. That was  
outrageous to me, and at first, I didn't even want to accept because it  
was just too much. But who could turn down an offer like that? Plus,  
trust me, Jack had everything. And to take a second to brag on myself, I  
am an excellent mechanic. I can do anything to a car.  
  
Now, Jack was really the only father figure I'd ever known, since my own  
dad was a total alcoholic ass. I think Jack knows I look up to him as  
such, and that's why he got me that car. And he didn't step in to help  
one bit the entire time I was building it. I'd spend from dawn until  
about three o'clock every morning working on it, for weeks. By that  
time, I'd moved into an apartment Jack had given me for free up above the  
garage. It was small, only one big room with a bed, sink, "kitchen  
area," bathtub, and toilet. Of course, my bathtub and toilet was blocked  
off from everything else, so technically I guess you could say I had two  
rooms. Anyway, I have decent interior decorator skills, and I made the  
place look and feel like home. And I was proud of it, and didn't think a  
damn thing about bringing friends over to chill. By that time, I'd made  
some new friends, street racers I'd met coming into the garage. They may  
have raced on the streets illegally, but other than that, they were good  
people who didn't bother anyone, were always polite, and never made too  
much noise. Well, when they were at my place they didn't.  
  
Anyway, about the building of my car. I guess it doesn't take a rocket  
scientist for you to know it's the one I'm driving now. Of course, it  
was still a Supra, but it didn't look anything like it does now when I  
first got it. But when I first laid eyes on it and Jack told me it was  
mine to build, I got a visual in my mind of what the end result would be  
instantly. I immediately went to the store computer, the one I always  
worked on, and did a complete layout of the finished product. I was so  
excited I could have fainted when I saw the layout. I knew that I could  
make that old rusty-looking car out there in the garage look like that.  
All by myself, too.  
  
Now, the car wasn't terribly ragged. But it was an older model. It had  
been seriously used, and was in need of a good mechanic to bring it back  
to life. Something about that rusty red car made me feel a kindred  
spirit with it. Maybe it was because it was my first car, the only one  
I'd ever had for myself that didn't belong to anyone else. And I didn't  
even have to steal it. I just had to build it. Or maybe it was the car  
itself, and the way it looked. The headlights, glazed over with a thick  
layer of dust, seemed to stare at me, begging me to fix it up and make it  
new again. And it was then that I knew this car needed me just like I  
needed it.  
  
Like I said, the car wasn't terribly ragged. It had just been abandoned  
for a pretty long time. I could tell it had been driven hard by its  
previous owner. It had been wrecked, at least two or three times by what  
I could tell. Nothing serious, just a few fender-benders. So, needless  
to say, it needed a new body kit. In fact, I ripped apart the entire  
body and put a whole new one on including the hottest body kit I had  
available to me. I was definitely going to take advantage of Jack's  
offer, since he insisted. I also pretty much ripped apart the entire  
underside of the car, but that was definitely needed anyway. Nothing  
that was under the hood of that car would hold up, or somebody would  
still be driving it. Every pipe, tube, or piece under the hood shone  
like a star on a clear night and to this day, I've kept it that way.  
  
I then installed all the best high performance parts on the market.  
Remember I said Jack had everything at his store and garage? Well, you'd  
never be able to grasp what I mean unless you saw it. It's too bad  
street racing is dying there, and Jack's high performance business is  
slowly deteriorating. But he still has his garage.  
  
Also, by this time, I'd been working in his store and garage for about  
four years, since I was sixteen years old. Not only had I managed to  
become a great mechanic, but I'd also mastered custom painting. I  
painted my brand new car sky-blue, or baby-blue, whichever color you like  
to call it. Then I put on those cat-scratch graphics I mentioned  
earlier. After that, I installed a set of blue glow lights under the  
car. The finished car was the most beautiful and raciest-looking car in  
Houston. At least, in my opinion, and those closest to me, which were my  
co-workers.  
  
The next step was to learn to master driving it. Which, I hate to admit,  
took a while. For a long time, I had a heavy foot. I had ever since my  
day of hot-wiring as a junior high school truant. I was lucky that  
Houston had a local driving course which was supposed to be used for  
police officers in training. You know how they have to go through all  
that defensive driving crap. I can't stand cops, but Jack, the old guy  
with all the connections, got it to where I was allowed, with much  
begging on my part, to be able to drive there. He told them something  
like I was supposed to be working for him to be a professional,  
legitimate drag racer, but I needed more practice in a place where there  
was plenty of room for speed. Plus, I think he paid them a huge lump of  
dough, but I didn't ask about all that.  
  
My first experience with nitrous-oxide was outrageous. I could install a  
NOS kit, but being able to actually use it was a totally different  
matter. Another of Jack's mechanics, Michael, a twenty-eight year old  
guy who raced illegally at night, was with me in the car. He had also  
taught me to drive stick, which was a hilarious time, but I don't need to  
go into that in detail. Anyway, about the nitrous, he waited until just  
the precise time before he told me to hit the button. And when I did, I  
got a rush like no other. I almost wrecked my brand new car that day,  
but luckily I got the thing stopped from the spin it was in just before I  
hit a railing and possibly totaled the car and killed me and Michael  
both. But you know what he did? He laughed at me, like it was no big  
deal. And told me he'd bring me back tomorrow for another try. And you  
know what else? I thought it was funny myself. The adrenaline rush was  
huge, and I craved more, bigger and better adrenaline rushes. Almost  
like my father craved liquor and my mother craved any drug she could  
smoke, snort, or shoot up. While Jack is responsible for my car and my  
mechanic skills, Michael has to be given credit for my driving skills.  
Well, not totally. A lot of my driving skills rely on my vivid  
imagination and the fact that I fear nothing and I'm possibly the most  
daring driver you'll ever meet. No road, cop, raised bridge, or hill can  
stop me. And I've managed to master controlling my car in mid-air, which  
sometimes can be vital to winning a race, but is usually especially vital  
to escaping from the cops. I practiced a lot on that driving course  
alone as well. I practiced a lot on the roads myself at night, alone,  
between midnight and dawn, when traffic wasn't as heavy. I mastered the  
skills of the street racer. And now I've raced more races on those  
Houston streets than I can count. And I've never lost a single one, not  
even my first.  
  
Now I was restless. Having beaten all the competition in Houston, and  
with people dropping out of the racing scene altogether, I felt it wasn't  
the place for me anymore. Jack understood when I told him. So did  
Michael. Michael even went out and raced a 10 G buy-in race, which  
wasn't common, and he'd had to go to Dallas to do it. He'd beat the best  
racers there were, racers who worked for rich guys and had come from far  
away. He won $40,000 that night and gave me $20,000 of it out of the  
goodness of his heart. Michael isn't a very rich person, because we  
don't see stakes like that around here, so I didn't want to take the  
money, but he told me I was his little sister and there was no way I was  
leaving town without a lot of cash in case I needed it.  
  
So, after saying my farewells and packing all my shit up, I drove away,  
leaving Houston behind. Houston was dead to me anyway.  
  
As I drove into L.A., I didn't really know where to go. I had plenty of  
money, but I'm a tight-wad and didn't want to spend much of it, so I  
rented the cheapest room I could get at the local Days Inn.  
  
When I unlocked the door to my room and went inside, I almost immediately  
regretted my cheapskate actions. The room was small and crappy, with a  
single bed and terrible decorating. At least it did have cable TV,  
although there was no remote control. It also had a refrigerator and  
microwave that worked pretty good.  
  
I was desperate for a shower. Actually, a bath. I wanted to soak a  
little bit. I turned on the air conditioner and went outside to drag all  
of my luggage upstairs into the room. I figured I'd stay here until I  
found a job and a place. I mean, I had enough money to pay $27 a night  
for a little while. And it wasn't that bad of a room and, besides, it  
was all I needed for little ol' me.  
  
I then went into the bathroom to run my bath water. I immediately  
noticed that there was no drain stopper. I still wanted to take a bath  
and soak for a while, so it was time to improvise. As with all motel  
rooms, they give you several towels and washcloths. So I took one  
washcloth, balled it up into a ball, and stuffed it into the drain the  
best I could, hoping it would stop the water from leaking out quickly.  
Then I undressed, took my hair down, and lowered myself into the bathtub.  
I soaked for at least an hour before actually bathing, shaving, and  
washing my long dark reddish-brown hair. I had to add more water about  
every twenty minutes.  
  
Before getting out of the tub, I pulled the balled up washcloth from the  
drain, rung it out, and spread it out over the shower rail, as I did the  
washcloth I had bathed with. I spread the hand-towel out over the floor  
so as not to make the floor slippery and then dried my hair and body and  
wrapped the towel around myself. I then pulled some pajamas that Michael  
had gotten for his little girl to give me for my birthday the year  
before. I guess they had gotten tired of coming to my apartment early in  
the morning and seeing me in my tattered nightgowns and high-water  
pajamas.  
  
I put the pajamas on, which were baby blue with puppies and dog bones on  
them. Clearly, Michael's little girl, Midori, had picked them out  
herself. I loved them. They were my favorite ones out of the three  
packs of pajamas I had gotten for my birthday that year from Michael.  
Midori was like my little neice, and I adored her as much as she did me.  
It hurt me to leave her behind, but I had needed this. I then turned on  
the TV, found a music station, and cut it down so as not to disturb me  
too much. I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. Those big  
red numbers read 11:00pm. Early for me to be going to bed, but I'd been  
driving a significant portion of the day, and was extremely tired.  
  
I pulled the covers back and slid under them, pulling them up close  
around me since I had the air conditioner wide open. I'm one of those  
people that has to have constant background noise, so even in the dead of  
winter, my air conditioner is running unless I have a heater that puts  
out enough noise, which I never have. I needed one of those motors that  
people can keep by their bedside.  
  
I took one of the pillows and pulled it close to me to snuggle with, laid  
my head on the other one, and fell into the deepest sleep I'd ever slept  
up until then. 


End file.
